7 - When a Watcher Must Act

#

COUNCIL OF WATCHERS: An organization first founded around the 6th century, the Watchers were the guardians, mentors, and guides of the Slayer (see separate entry). The Watchers not only trained and guided the current Slayer, but also sought out girls that could potentially be chosen as the next Slayer, training them, often from birth, in order to be ready for their mission.

The Watchers suffered a serious blow when, in the late 20th century, the current Slayer broke away from them, no longer willing to continue killing Vampires who were now in possession of their souls (see separate entry for Restoration of Souls). After some unsuccessful attempts at the Slayer's life, the Watchers eventually broke apart as the world came to accept Vampires in their midst. Some cells of this ancient organization reportedly survive, but it is generally regarded as defunct.

Rosenberg Index of the Preternatural, vol. XXVI, September 2057

#

Fifty-nine years now. Fifty-nine years had passed since the worst day of his life and Wesley Windham-Pryce remembered it as if it had happened just yesterday.

In the week prior to that day his entire world had come tumbling down. He had seen things he had never believed possible, had learned things that questioned everything he had believed to be the truth. He had met people - he thought of them as people now - who were anything but the cruel and evil demons he had been taught to expect. He had seen them love and suffer, care and regret, all of it emotions Vampires shouldn't have been capable of.

Wesley had always believed himself to be a man of rationality and wisdom, or as much of the latter as his years allowed, and faced with undeniable facts he had had little choice but to see the truth.

A truth that was to damn him.

He remembered the argument with his Slayer. His Slayer. Kendra. The girl he had been to protect, to guide, to train. They had come to America together in order to fulfill her sacred duty. He remembered the night he had tried to explain to her the things he had learned. Tried to explain how everything she had been taught all her life, from her very birth, were wrong.

She hadn't listened. She had called him a traitor, had suspected he had fallen under some Vampire's thrall. He had tried to reason with her, but to no avail. Thinking back, he probably had to be grateful that she hadn't tried to kill him right then and there.

It had led him to an ugly truth. Kendra would not understand. Too ingrained was her training, too deeply imbedded her believes and opinions. The Watchers had done themselves a pride when they raised her, Wesley remembered thinking. The perfect warrior, never questioning her orders, fulfilling her duty, no matter that it was wrong.

He had loved her, he knew that. Loved her like the daughter he had never had. There had been women throughout the last sixty years, lovers, even a wife he had loved very much before time had taken her away. But never children. How could a man who had killed his only daughter be found fit to have more children?

He remembered that night. Every little detail, every word that was said and not said, every choice made. Without even trying he could conjure up that dirty little flat in his mind, the one where Angel and Wesley had followed Kendra to. A flat that belonged to a family.

A family that had demon blood inside them.

They had arrived but minutes after Kendra, who had already broken into the flat by then. The family had consisted of six people. The parents and four small children, none of them older than seven years. The father, whose face had reminded Wesley of a Kremlac demon, had obviously tried to stop the intruder and paid the price. He had been lying against the wall, bleeding and broken, Kendra with a raised knife above him.

Wesley remembered Angel springing into action, that demonic creature of the night risking its own existence to save six innocents from someone who was supposed to be the champion of good. Wesley had already seen by then what kind of fighter Angel was, but on that day it was not enough.

It had been day outside and the flat had had large windows. Angel had tried to look out for the innocents, Kendra had had no such constraints. The fight had lasted about five minutes, too furious for any of the family to even think of getting past the two warriors, and in the end Angel had gone down, too weakened by the daylight to defeat the Slayer.

The one thing Wesley did not remember was at what moment he had drawn the gun. He remembered buying it shortly before they had gone to America, just in case his duties as Watchers might one day carry him a bit too close to the action. Carrying it beneath his jacket had become habit quickly and so he'd had it with him on that day. He could not remember drawing it, though. Could not remember the exact moment he had made his decision.

With stake and knife in hand, caught in a moment of indecision which of the demons to kill first, Kendra had not heeded his cry for her to stop. She had looked at him, not comprehending that her Watcher was actually aiming a gun at her. He had screamed and screamed, told her to stop, to lay down her weapons.

Kendra had raised the knife and started toward one of the children. Four little children huddled in the corner, their innocent eyes widened in fear.

Some undetermined amount of time later Angel had pried the gun out of Wesley's limp hand, had led the Watcher out of the flat and away from what he had done. He dimly remembered the family thanking him for saving their lives, but he hadn't really listened.

His Slayer had died. By his hand.

"I didn't want to kill you!" Wesley whispered, tears running down his aged face.

Kendra stood in front of him, a ghostly apparition in his dark bedroom. Fifty-nine years and she looked the same he remembered. Just like she had on the day he had killed her.

A part of his mind, the trained Watcher, realized what was going on. The drop in room temperature, the transparent appearance of her, the chill running down his spine, that part of him knew he was facing a ghost.

The rest of him was convinced that, after all these years, he was finally going mad.

"I'm sorry!" He whispered, closing his eyes, hoping the apparition would just go away.

The next thing he felt was a touch of ... something against his cheek. Like a cold wind softly blowing over his skin, a fog swirling against his face. He opened his eyes again and found that Kendra was touching his cheek with one ghostly hand.

"Don't be sorry, Wesley!" She said, her words a strange murmur that seemed to reach his brain without the detour through his ears. Her face showed a sad smile, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

"What?" He couldn't think of anything better to say.

"Don't be sorry for what you did, Wesley!" She told him. "You did what you had to do. What every good man would have done."

"But, but I ..." His voice broke, fresh tears flowing down his cheeks.

"I came back to tell you that I understand, Wesley." She continued. "On that day I couldn't understand. I was not able to understand. But I do now."

Wesley raised his hand, wanting to touch his Slayer, wanting to feel her here, wanting to pretend for just a moment that this was real, that she was alive and well. That he hadn't ...

His hand touched nothing. Only cold air.

"I killed you." He repeated.

"You set me free." Kendra corrected him. "I wouldn't have changed, Wesley. The Watchers did too good a job with me. The only life I would have had would have consisted of more killing. More innocents dying by my hand. You did what had to be done."

"But it ... it isn't fair!" He shook his head. "It wasn't your fault! Why did you have to ... why did I have to ..."

"Life isn't fair, Wesley!" She soothed him, wishing she could brush his tears away. "And it wasn't your fault, either. If there is anyone to blame it's the Council leaders, who refused to change when they learned of the Restoration. All of them are dead by now, Wesley. It's time for you to stop blaming yourself."

He looked up at her, not believing what he was hearing. He had made a good life, he knew, but this one night had always haunted him. Like a perpetual shadow over his existence. One he could pretend wasn't there, maybe even forget for a time, but it never went away.

"I killed you!" He repeated again. "It was my duty to protect you and I failed. I should have been smarter, I ... I should have thought of some way to break that bloody programming they put you through. I should have found another way to stop you instead of ... instead of ..."

A single shot. Kendra falling to her knees, bleeding heavily from where he had shot her in the leg, but refusing to stay down. Getting back to her feet, Slayer stamina stronger than the wound. Raising the knife again.

A second shot. The knife clattering to the floor, the useless arm dropping to her side, blood pouring out of a shattered shoulder. Pain and fury on her face. The second arm, stake still in hand, coming up and at him.

A third shot.

"I should have found a better way!" Wesley sobbed.

"There wasn't." Kendra told him softly. "Please stop blaming yourself, Wesley. Because I don't blame you."

He shook his head, not believing what he heard. This was all some kind of mad delusion. Maybe he was still in bed and dying from a heart attack or something, his brain cooking up some kind of forgiveness scene for him as he faded. This couldn't be real.

"Look at me, Wesley!" She commanded softly. His eyes met hers. "I know how much you suffered, Wesley. I know how much pain this has caused you. How it has darkened your life. And I know how much you did to righten this imagined wrong. How you helped put Buffy, my successor, on the right path. All the lives you helped save."

She smiled at him.

"I also know that you loved me. Loved me like the father I never really had before you."

Again the cold wind brushed over his cheek as the ghost of his Slayer gave him a soft kiss.

"The only thing I regret is that I was not he kind of person in life who could have appreciated that. Just know that I knew, even then, your feelings for me. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to show you how much you meant to me."

She rose to her feet, leaving him sitting on his bed. The room around him seemed to darken even more, the only thing he still saw the image of his Slayer. His daughter.

"I love you, Wesley Windham-Pryce." Kendra said. "I am glad I could tell you that before it was too late."

And the shadow went away.

#

Sometime later that day the nurse found him, slumped over in his bed.

There was a smile on his face.

8 - Faustian Deals and Devil's Advocates

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ANGEL(S): Figures of Christian myth, reportedly the messengers and warriors of God or a form of higher power. Most often portrayed as having large, feathery wings. While there are several documented cases of demonic creatures taking on an angelic appearance to further their own agendas, there is no reliable sighting of a true angel. While their existence can not be discounted due to their extensive presence in Christian mythology, there is yet to be found definite proof.

Rosenberg Index of the Preternatural, vol. XXVI, September 2057

#

The Archangel Sariel walked through the busy streets of Los Angeles and came to a stop in front of a large office building. She took a moment to study the marble sign standing in front of her.

 WOLFRAM & HART
 ATTORNEYS AT LAW

She shook her head. Of all the foolish ideas these mortals had come up with over the aeons, this crazy system of courts, lawyers, and laws had to be one of the most ridiculous. Murderers walked free because of technicalities. Innocents were convicted because a witness couldn't tell one man of a particular skin color from another. Lawyers wasting their lives with endless double talk. It gave her a feeling of revulsion.

Especially in this place. The fact that the Adversary had hired lawyers of his own didn't surprise her at all, really.

What had surprised her, though, was the fact that these same lawyers had sent her an invitation to come by their offices. The invitation, delivered by a Valerian Bloodhound demon who had tracked her down and paid for it with his life, contained a lot of double talk, fancy words and phrases. The message hidden in these words was simple enough, though.

We know of your problem. Let's talk about it.

Looking at the building in front of her, Sariel could almost feel the aura of evil that permeated this place. Most of the souls here were promised to the Adversary, mortals having sold away eternity in return for earthly power and pleasure. Only a few specs of goodness were visible here, probably lower employees who had no idea what was really happening in this dark place.

The thought of going into this dark place repulsed her, yet she did not hesitate. It was her mission to find out why Heaven was losing souls and if the Adversary's cronies could give her information, so be it. She was not prepared to believe anything she was about to hear, at least not without a lot of proof.

Occasionally, though, she knew that even evil told the truth. If that truth was evil enough in itself.

#

"Uh, Mr. Hart, sir?"

Julius Hart looked up from his paperwork when the voice of his secretary rang out from the intercom.

"Yes, Margret. What is it?"

"Sir, there is ... well, there is an angel here to see you."

Hart smiled. None of the secretaries was very much bothered by the occasional demon or other monster walking the corridors of Wolfram & Hart, yet the appearance of an angel caused a minor panic, it seemed.

Guilty conscience? He would have to drive that out of them soon.

"Be so kind as to reschedule my appointments for the next hour, Margret. And lead our visitor to my office."

"Uh, of course, sir."

A minute later the door opened and his secretary ushered a very normal looking young woman into his office. The visitor was dressed in fine business clothing, the look on her face professionally neutral. She wouldn't have drawn much of a stare in any given office anywhere in the world, except for the fact that Wolfram & Hart's security wards had picked up on her not quite human nature.

Hart suspected that this creature could have fooled the wards, had she desired to do so.

He rose and offered her his hand, which caused her to stare at the outstretched appendage as if she was facing something very revolting. Instead she walked past him and took a seat in front of his desk. Hart sighed, walking back to his own chair. The main difference, he reminded himself, when dealing with demons on one side and angels on the other, was the fact that demons usually had more patience.

"I received your message." The angel said. "Talk!"

'Consider the point proven, your honor.' Hart thought, amused.

"Thank you for coming here." Hart said, sitting down. "I believe this is a matter that concerns both you and my client."

The angel just looked at him, waiting for him to say more.

"To the point then." He continued. "We know of your little problem, Ms. … sorry, I did not catch your name."

"Call me Sariel, if you must!"

Hart raised an eyebrow, the only visible sign of what he felt. Sariel, sometimes called Metatron, was an alias for the voice of God, the Archangel that delivered the Allmighty's messages to Earth. Hart hadn't thought twice about facing an angel, truth to be told, but knowing he was facing one of the seven Archangels of the First Host did up the ante a bit.

"Sariel then." He nodded, his face never losing its neutral expression. "As I said, we know of your problem, Sariel. To speak clearly, which I think you prefer, we know that souls are disappearing from Heaven. This is not a state of affairs you are content with, I would think."

The angel's human mask did not move, but Hart imaged he could see a dangerous twinkle in her eyes. Concentrating, Hart expanded his awareness until he was able to catch a glimpse of her true form underneath that mask of flesh and blood.

He averted his eyes immediately, his innards burning even from that one short peek. Looking at an angel's true face was not something to be done lightly, even for someone who had bargained away his soul and conscience a long time ago. The angel was beautiful to behold, though, no doubt about that. Beautiful like Hiroshima. Only to be appreciated from a very safe distance.

"Why was Samuel Morning here?" Sariel asked out of the blue.

Hart quickly adjusted to this shift on conversation. It didn't surprise him that his opposite was aware of his client's visit a few days ago. Heaven and Hell always kept close tabs on each other.

"Client confidentiality, I'm sorry. Suffice to say, though, that your competition is not to blame for your current problems."

"And we can place so much trust in their words, I know."

Apparently the art of sarcasm had not been lost on angels, Hart mused.

"I think if they were to blame and wanted to hide their involvement, they would feign ignorance of the problem, wouldn't you think?"

Sariel said nothing, though her stare gave him the uncomfortable urge to cover behind his desk.

"Sariel, let us be frank with one another. The prospect of souls returning to the material plain is not something either of us is looking forward to. It would hurt you, it would lead to lots and lots of problems here on Earth, nobody is happy."

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him.

"It is happening to the Adversary as well, isn't it?" She said, her lips showing a shadow of a smile. "That is why Samuel Morning came here."

Hart's face gave nothing away. He didn't much mind the angel figuring out what was happening in Hell. If Wolfram & Hart's seers were able to gather that Heaven was losing souls, it was only a matter of time until Heaven discovered the same problem was bothering their opposites.

The very fact that his seers had so easily been able to gaze past the Ethereal Threshold bothered him a lot more, truth to be told. It didn't bode well for the dividing line between worlds.

"Again, client confidentiality. But I am authorized to say that our client also wants this matter resolved. It is bad for business. All our business."

"You are not honestly proposing some kind of cooperation between us, are you?"

Hart spread his hands. "I realize it will be difficult, seeing the history between you and our clients. I just propose a, as you say, pooling of information. Also our client does not want this to lead to any kind of hostility between the two of you. Again, that would be bad for business."

The angel studied him thoughtfully.

"You have sold your soul long ago, Julius Hart." She said, her voice causing a chill to run down Hart's back. "Do you find your arrangement with Samuel Morning satisfactory?"

"With all due respect, but my association with Mr. Morning is a private matter."

"Of course." Sariel rose from her chair. "I will talk to my brethren about this matter, Mr. Hart. We will let you know our decision."

Hart nodded, rising as well, though not offering his hand this time. Sariel turned to leave, only to stop in mid-motion to look back at him.

"Oh, and Mr. Hart."

"Yes?"

"I would appreciate it if you refrained from sending Valerian Bloodhounds as your messengers again. I find them rather disgusting."

With that she took something from beneath her suit jacket and threw it on his desk. Hart needed a moment to identify the object through the blood and gore that was clinging to it. The severed head of the bloodhound.

There was something scratched into its broad forehead. A series of numbers.

"Try my cell number instead." Sariel added, then left in a burst of light.

"Always with the dramatics." Hart sighed, contemplating the mess that covered his desk and spending a moment to wonder how exactly the angel had hidden the huge head inside her suit jacket.

#

"Nice one with the head." A voice greeted Sariel as she stepped outside. "I could have done with a few more subtle threats, though."

Gabriel was leaning against Wolfram & Hart's marble sign, a smug look on her face. Her human form appeared as a black-haired woman, dark curls hiding half her face from view. She was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"And what are you doing here?" Sariel asked, not really happy to see the Angel of Death here in the material world.

"Scouting the terrain." Gabriel said, sounding as if she might be looking for a nice place to eat at. "News from home, sis! If the current increase of disappearances keeps up we'll have to take matters into our own hand."

"What do you mean?"

"It means we can't allow ourselves to fall behind." Gabriel smiled a knife-edge smile. "If the matter is not resolved soon, Raguel will sound the trumpet."

Her eyes closed as a shiver of anticipation went through her.

"Hell will feel Heaven's fury, sister. There will no place for sinners to hide. Not even here on Earth."

Sariel could not quite suppress the cold chill that was running down her spine.

9 - Looking For Trouble in All the Right Places

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NEWS-REPORT: Yesterday an as yet unexplained nuclear explosion devastated a large stretch of land in northern Siberia. Judging by the strength of the explosion, experts suspect the detonation of a tactical nuclear warhead to be the cause. Thankfully there are no reports of injured or dead, as the explosion occurred in an uninhabited area of Siberia and prevailing winds are expected to carry most of the radiation out to sea.

Preliminary investigations by the Russian military theorize that the warhead in question was probably a leftover from Red Army stocks that fell into the hand of Siberian separatists, who accidentally triggered it through amateur tinkering.

The investigation is ongoing.

Download from CNN.com, December 9, 1999

#

Siberia, November 2057 AD
 

"What a lovely place to spend your holidays." Faith complained, rubbing her hands together through the thick gloves she wore. Temperatures had barely reached zero at noon and now, after dusk, were dropping rapidly.

"I don't know what you're talking about, luv." Spike said, looking around the desolate landscape. "I think it has a certain rough charm. Sort of like the surface of the moon."

Faith glared at him, irked by the fact that the Vampire was not particularly bothered by the cold. He did wear a thick winter coat instead of his usual leather one, but only to keep the cold from freezing up his joints. Beyond that he was just fine.

Northern Siberia was a depressing enough place as it was, Faith thought, but this particular spot topped it still. A landscape that, nearly sixty years earlier, had been fused into glass by a nuclear explosion, now once again marred by weather and erosion. There was, of course, nothing left of the only building that had ever stood in this place. The retreat of Master Grigori had been vaporized in that same explosion the Russian authorities were still in the dark about.

Radiation, threatening only to the human members of their little party, was within safe limits if they didn't plan to stay too long. Faith, for her part, certainly didn't, though she feared nobody cared what she wanted.

"I can't believe we're here looking for this damn book." Faith muttered. "I mean, nuclear explosion, remember? Big fireball! Little bits of paper caught right in the fucking middle of it! We're looking for a bunch of free-floating molecules."

"Not necessarily, pet." Spike shook his head. "That bloody book wasn't exactly your garden-variety paperback edition. Lots of magic and stuff. Wouldn't surprise me if it wasn't even scratched."

It wouldn't surprise him at all, no. But Spike couldn't help but hope that they didn't find it. He had left it behind when they had fled from Grigori's retreat all these years ago exactly because he knew that the building and most of the landscape around it would soon be vaporized. The thing was just too dangerous for anyone to fool around with.

He was probably a hypocrite, he thought. After all, the book had worked the Restoration for them, one of the best things that had ever happened to this sorry world, unforeseen long-term consequences or not. Yet the rest of the spells it contained could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Or make that anyone's hands, Spike added. The short time the book had been in Grigori's possession had more than proved that to all their satisfaction.

And the current crisis only proved it again.

"Buggered if we find it," Spike muttered to himself, "buggered if we don't."

#

Angel sighed, tiredly rubbing his forehead. Even with the combined influence of Magitech and the Vampirium behind them it had taken nearly a week to convince the Russian government to let them excavate the site where the book had been lost all those years ago. He didn't want to know how much bribe money, string pulling, and threats it had taken to silence all the questions and get all the right authorizations.

It was necessary.

For sixty years he had hoped he'd seen the last of the Necronomicon Nocturnum. And now they had to find it, hoping that it might contain some inkling of how to repair the damage it had caused 150 years ago.

The damage he had caused.

"Stop torturing yourself!" Buffy said softly, brushing her hand through his hair.

They were sitting inside one of the mobile command vehicles they had dropped right in the middle of this desolation, essentially small houses on wheels. Their party contained over a hundred people, most of them Magitech employees, and in this climate they needed the best of equipment to get any work done.
Angel and Buffy sat inside the heated interior, looking at the outside through plastic windows. They didn't feel the cold in here, at least not the cold caused by the weather.

"This is my fault." Angel mumbled, not for the first time. "I should have known that invoking magics of such magnitude would have consequences. I should have learned more first, instead of just rushing in and unleashing a spell that will doom the world."

Buffy embraced him from behind, resting her head against his broad back, searching for words to say. It wasn't his fault. He couldn't have known what the Restoration would cause 150 years down the line. He had saved the world from a race of monsters. It wasn't fair that he had to deal with this now.

Life isn't fair, a cruel voice inside her head reminded her.

She also knew that nothing would make Angel stop blaming himself. His one tragic flaw was the fact that he always felt personally responsible for everything, even the things that were not his fault. She knew how long he had tortured himself over the deeds of his demon, even though he had been completely powerless to prevent them. Ever since giving all Vampires souls he blamed himself for every evil deed any given Vampire might perform.

It had taken her years to lighten him up even a bit. He had such a beautiful smile and she still felt that she saw it much too seldom. Spike had told her a lot about Angel's guilt trips in the century before they had met. They had lasted years, sometimes decades. Since they had been together those had occurred less and less and Buffy had almost been ready to believe that Angel had finally forgiven himself for all the real and imagined wrongs he felt responsible for.

And then something like this happened.

"We'll find the book!" Buffy told him confidently, pouring all her love and warmth into the link they shared through their blood. "We'll find it and fix this."

Even as she spoke the words, Buffy remembered the last time Angel had used the Necronomicon to fix a problem that had been caused by the book in the first place. Acathler, threatening to suck the world into hell. She had almost lost Angel on that day, the book demanding a terrible price for his using it.

Buffy prayed history wouldn't repeat itself.

"I hope you are right." Angel sighed. Feeling his beloved so close to him, feeling her hero's heart beat as if it was his own, it was almost enough to dispel the dark clouds he felt hovering around him. She was his anchor, his daylight. The words he had told her during their binding ceremony 55 years ago were every bit as true today as they were then.

He felt her confidence that he would make it right again, that they would make it trough this together, just like they always did. The Watchers, Grigori, Giles' death, Golgotha, losing her mother, all the large and small crises they had survived together.

He wanted to believe her.

"You have barely slept this last week." Buffy told him. "Lie down for an hour or so at least. I'll make sure everything goes smoothly outside."

Angel nodded, feeling the tiredness in every single bone. He doubted he could sleep, but even a little lie down would probably do him good. Slouching toward the tiny sleeping compartments of the command vehicle, he was barely past the door when he collapsed on the small bed.

God, he was tired.

"A pretty little thing." A voice started him. "You've done nicely for yourself, Liam!"

Angel surged back to his feet. A tall, blonde man stood in one corner of the narrow room, casually leaning against the wall. Angel knew that he hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Who are you?" Angel gell into a fighting pose without conscious effort.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The stranger asked, pushing away from the wall. He was dressed in a black suit and red shirt, his clear blue eyes not even flinching when Angel shifted into Vampire face.

"I don't know you." Angel growled.

"You don't remember. There's a difference." He made a short bow. "Samuel Morning. At your service."

Angel froze. Samuel Morning. Giles had mentioned that name when he talked about Hell.

Which meant that this man was not a man at all.

"What do you want?" Angel didn't drop his guarded posture.

"Just chat a bit." He smiled. "About old times."

Morning stopped a few steps away from Angel, still smiling.

"We were really mad at you, you know? For a time, I mean. This whole business with a several thousand of our precious souls disappearing all at once thanks to your little miracle working, it really irked a few important people. On both sides."

"Is that supposed to bother me?" Angel asked.

"Not really, I guess. We didn't mind much, truth to be told. It was mostly a matter of principle. I mean, losing a few thousand souls doesn't really bother us. That's just small change in the great scheme of things."

The smile vanished from his face. "What is happening now, though, is not. Not nearly."

Something about this false man made the hairs on Angel's neck stand up. The demon inside him howled with pleasure at the stench of pure evil this creature gave off. There was something else, though. Some nagging feeling of familiarity that he couldn't place.

"If you are here to tell me that we need to do something about this, you're a bit late." Angel said. "We are already doing something."

"Yes." Morning nodded, making a show of looking around. "Quite an operation you have dropped down here in the middle of nowhere. You are looking for that book. I hope you find it soon, Liam. Truth to be told we were quite glad when the book was buried during that explosion sixty years ago. It has caused enough of a ruckus as it is."

"Now we need it, though."

"Indeed we do."

Morning's smile returned.

"Of course you realize, Liam, that drastic measures might be required this time around. I mean, it was the forced removal of several thousand souls from the ethereal dimensions that has caused this dilemma in the first place. You know what might be necessary to put it right again, don't you?"

Angel closed his eyes. He had spent quite some time thinking about this possibility these last few days.

"I know, yes."

"Good!" Morning said brightly. "I know you will do the right thing, Liam. That's the kind of guy you are. Or should I say, the kind of guy you have become?"

"What do you mean?"

"Liam, my boy," Morning shook his head, "I thought you'd be smart enough to figure this out on your own. I mean, let's not kid ourselves here! What do you think happened to you in the 150 years between your death and the Gypsy curse?"

He walked closer, a cruel smile on his lips that made Angel take a step back.

"You were a no-good drunken bastard, Liam. You broke a dozen girls' hearts without a second thought. You brawled in bars, you wasted your life from beginning to end, never had a single unselfish thought in your entire existence. Where did you think someone like that would go when he dies?"

Something deep inside Angel resonated with Morning's words. Emotions welled up from deep within, feelings that had no connection to any kind of actual memory or thought, rooted not in the recollections of the demon or any kind of physical experience. Feelings of pain and dread unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Or had he?

"I guess I'll be seeing you soon, then." Morning said, vanishing a moment later.

The faint smell of sulfur that remained behind sent a shiver down Angel's spine.

Go to Part 10